So There I Am By: Eric Severing
	So there I am walking down this path-- that came from nowhere and ends nowhere-- when I see this poor, helpless, little sprite laying on the ground sobbing.  I kneel down next to Tinker Bell and offer any assistance of mine she might need.  Tinky begins to go off in the manner of hysterical women, but does so in a language I cannot understand.  Courageous hero that I am, I sweep the nymph-like tiny creature off her feet and in doing so offer her the protection innate to my clumsy hands.  Mistaking my intentions, Ms. Bell attempts to defend herself by nibbling arduously upon my phalanges.  "Blank you," I exclaim while launching her into a tree, spreading Tinky body pieces-parts everywhere.  Now is when I notice the Amazon women from hell. They would be the Amazonians who have just witnessed my ill-treatment of the aforementioned member of the female sex.  Their leader shouts something that I assume is "kill male" or "to arms."  From all around I am pelted with marshmallows (regular size and miniature) and Captain Crunch cereal.  As you may have already guessed only a buck-o-five puss would be hurt by a marshmallow but the Captain Crunch hurts (because it stays crispy-- even in milk).  I begin to run, assuming that I have seen the best of their militant abilities.  That is when I notice an object shadowing me from overhead.  I look up to find a mammoth rice crispy treat just before it acquires its target-- my head.  All goes black and I can't recall how I was transported to their village.  This nightmare I know as my life grows worse as the ritual begins.  I hear the falling of heavy footsteps coming closer and closer to my assumed place of demise.  There, right in front of me, is a 500 pound, totally nude, tribal woman whose chest is hairier than mine and whose eyes are aflame with a certain gleam.  The music pauses and then begins anew with a slow, rhythmic sense of impending doom.   Diana's, the ape woman, footsteps match the slow beat of the drum amplifying the "boom" effect.  The beat of the drums accelerando and the dance quickens.  The sight of all that jiggling flesh awakens a primordial urge, an intense kind of hunger that is entirely alien to me. I have never before experienced this wholly animal-like sensation.  The sensation is that of a predator who is trapped via unusual circumstance and my once prey is taking advantage of circumstantial fate by taunting me.  I am more than just a link in the food chain, however, more even than a man feeling the instinctual knowledge inherited from every preceding generation and awakening to the resurfacing of the animalistic instinct that is deep inside of what is ultimately a civilized critter.  I am the embodiment of an evil kind of desire. "------- --- - - ------ --- ---- ----- ---- ----,? Dr. Aleandro asks me.  I feel myself becoming as one with my familiar, slipping through the snake ropes as my body transforms. . .  "Mr. Severing, would you care to answer the question," the professor asks, breaking off the pleasantly distracting daydream that is my only immediate source of escape. Shit, I think to myself, as I vocalize a more appropriate reply along the lines of "I'm sorry, Dr. Aleandro, would you please repeat the question?"  "It is an opinion question Mr. Severing; it requires little application of effort on anyone's part.  Perhaps if you had read any of the material which I had assigned you might have an opinion of some value, or perhaps not," is his response to my hopeful dodge of blatant lack of concentration.  When your teacher can touch one hand to the blackboard at one end of the classroom and touch any student in any chair in the class with his other hand, it is impossible to pass off not paying attention as anything other than exact crime of which I had just been convicted.  This classroom would still be miniscule even if everyone did not feel suffocated by the subject matter and its ambassador. I mentally slap myself in the face for being caught and simultaneously mutter the blackest of curses upon the head of my professor, under my breath of course.  I resume paying attention and class proceeds.  "Now to die as Shakespeare put it,? Dr. Stephanopoulos Aleandro continues "means to have a sexual orgasm."  I honestly try to pay attention in class, but it is to no avail.  I'm pissed now.  Dr. A. achieved exactly what he wanted in striking at my young, male ego and embarrassing me in front of the entire class.  I hate that!  I would have settled down had it not been for the torture seating/desk device that I am quite sure Hitler contracted some evil carpenter to design specifically for the purpose of keeping awake whatever poor literary schlep worked with the crazed Nazi on his biography.  With Stephanopoulos giving me the hot, intellectual poker from the front and the chair branding me from behind, I myself, have become a tad irritable.   I begin to fidget in my chair.  More than just fidget really it is a dance of sorts.  I am reminded of the tribal woman from my daydream as I wrestle this demonic, faux-wooden creature in the hope of achieving a position that will provide me less discomfort through to the time when this lecture comes to a close.  The length of the lecture is comparable to the 40 day and 40 night flood story in the Bible.  That flood was so terrible God promised never to do it again and reminds the world of His promise with the rainbow. I would personally rather attempt treading water for that length of time than sit through another of Dr. A?s three hour lectures. Not to mention the hands of a clock are a damn poor substitute for a rainbow and fall far short of inspiring any hope as they literally tick away the seconds separating me from this lecture and freedom.  "Wonk, wonk, wonk, wonk," Dr. A. persists with his planned lesson, but for me the words have lost any real meaning.  I'm certain he did not just say "wonk, wonk, wonk, wonk."  I try to pass the time by imagining how my little chair/desk would look rammed halfway into Mr. A.'s head. No, that isn't sufficiently poetic.  If I am going to do the man in then I want to do it in a way that would be representative of my creativity.  I would want something that expresses my attitude and yet, at the same time, does not point directly to me as the perpetrator.  Hmmm.  "Now, what did you want to discuss Eric," he asks as I join him for our conference, conveniently scheduled at a time when we are likely to be the only two left in the building.  "I thought I might come in and get some ideas of how I might improve my performance in class," I offer to throw off his guard a little.  I can see the smugness begin to wash over his face as he senses he has broken the wild spirit.  No sooner does he attain a smug expression than I have leapt from my seat, clearing his desk in a single jump.  I knock him backwards in his chair and pin him to the floor with his neck sandwiched between my shin and the awful brown carpet that would pass for indoor/outdoor carpeting anywhere other than here on campus.  I slowly lower one of his own paper clips to his eye allowing sufficient time for him to see it has been straightened on one end in order to form a deadly weapon.  "Notice I hold one of your very own precious paper clips in my hand Dr. Aleandro," I sneer at him while he struggles to free himself.  "This is an example of poetic irony; first, because it is your paper clip, and second, because you taught me what poetic irony means."  I cannot help throwing that in before I clench my victory.  "Now say it, say it!"  "Sega," he whines pathetically as...   Nah, that wouldn't work.  It doesn't torture him enough and what are the odds of a professor, who took 45 minutes to demonstrate writing concretely via his narration of the infamous hamburger supper at a Mom and Pop restaurant in some dinky town immortalized only in his tale, knowing that I am spoofing a commercial while committing a homicide.  Maybe, I should do the car bomb thing instead.  It allows me to establish an alibi but at the same time is overly mafiaish, besides, he is the one person I want to have knowledge I committed this unspeakable crime.  "Dr. Aleandro, you have a call from your wife. She said it is an emergency," Tracy, the staff secretary, announces interrupting class.  "Thank you, Tracy.  Please inform my wife I will call her immediately from the cellular in my automobile.  Excuse me class."  As he exits the building up comes a Rat Top® convertible conversion, lagoon-blue, 1975 Monte Carlo sporting no more than an inch of ground clearance thanks to the hydraulic suspension and low-profile tires wrapped around gold-spoke wheels. The Monte?s 150 decibel stereo thunders Ice Cube's 'Check Yo Self' effectively drowning out the threatening declarations of the six Crips strapped with AK-47, fully-automatic assault rifles and ganked-out in blue attire. The dusky evening?s gray lights-up from the fireworks of all six gang members? weapons as they perpetrate a stereotypical, big-city, turf-war drive-by.  Mr. A. spins and floats in a ballet inspired and choreographed by a thousand lead projectiles before his bag of fleshy pulp, recognizable only through the remnants of tattered clothing, slumps to the ground. Of course, I am the first on the scene in response to the pulsating sound of gunshot.  I had been one of the individuals who was firing a weapon, but managed to rid myself of my thug wear and blend in with those that came outside to see what was going down. There he lies on the front brick slowly fading from this life as I kneel next to him with a glowing smile on my face. Everyone else is staying back to give him air as I had suggested just before taking a knee.  A look of horror freezes on his face as he realizes why I am smiling and the last thing he sees is my evil grin before his life fails and his eyes focus upon the infinite beyond.  Wait a minute.  Somebody is bound to notice that I wasn't in class before the shooting and Dr. Aleandro isn't even married. "Damn!"  "Pardon me Mr. Severing," Dr. A. inquires at my sudden profane exclamation.  "Sorry Doc, I... I uh... I just bit my tongue."  "How dreadful, auspiciously it would seem that your tongue escaped severe enough injury to prevent the butchering of the Queen's English with such idyllic colloquialisms."  Ha, ha, ha, prick!  One more of many responses I am forced to keep to myself.  If he only knew how close he had just been to becoming another statistic in the continuing saga of gang violence.  Would his wit be so sharp to defend against an onslaught of rounds from assault rifles?  O.k., the drive by is excessively sloppy, but it would be suitably violent.  C'mon, use that noodle.   Surely the money I am spending on this education will pay off by assisting me in offing this guy.  Maybe I will get lucky and Dr. Aleandro will be the subject of an alien abduction. Boom!  Sheer brilliance rears its head!  "Sorry about the mix up Mr. Al... Aleandro.  Our next regularly scheduled flight normally leaves tomorrow at three in the afternoon, but we have scheduled you a private flight to make up for the mistake in booking and for your inconvenience," the attendant at the ticket counter explains.  "You will depart from gate 6 as soon as the plane refuels which will make your arrival time in Bermuda approximately five-thirty.  Thank you for flying Bermuda Air."  "Thank you," responds Dr. A. as he picks up his carry-on and works his way down to gate 6.  The gate and ground crew assist Stephanopoulos onto the twin engine commuter plane.  Fortunately, he is shuffled quickly onto the plane and hasn?t the opportunity to catch a good look at the pilot, nor would he recognize me in my spiffy pilot's uniform.  I use my best gung-ho, cocky pilot voice as I cite to my single passenger, in the rear of the plane, every safety instruction and that we are merely awaiting clearance before we are on our way.  "The pilot has turned off the seatbelt sign so feel free to help yourself to the executive bar and complimentary refreshments," I announce over the intercom.  "Smooth sailing (I chuckle) all the way to Bermuda. We should arrive shortly," I announce some time into the flight and well after I had turned off the seatbelt sign.  Now the real action.  I lower the plane's altitude so that we fall out of range of traditional radar. Only marine radar could track a plane this low and it is unlikely such sophisticated equipment is aboard any nearby vessel.  Since we can no longer be tracked it would appear we have mysteriously disappeared.  I drop our air speed down to a velocity at which the plane can barely maintain flight.  After switching on the auto pilot I put the finishing touches of my plan into effect.  I leave the cockpit and join Dr. A. in the passenger section of the plane.  I have rid myself of uniform so that he can now recognize me.  "You," exclaims Stephan in exacerbation.  "Yes it is I," is my reply.  Before he can act I overpower him and strip him naked just before weighting him down with every one of the many texts on our assigned reading list. Thus is he bound much to the same fate as each of his soon-to-be former, despairing students.  I put my scuba gear on and double check my parachute.  As I am changing, I explain to Dr. Stephanopoulos Aleandro his now destined fate.  "I have plotted the plane's course so that it will crash near the immense under water Bermudan caves.   The tide will usher the plane into the caves never to be found and you too will never be seen again.  This is the mystery of the Bermuda Triangle.  Large, underwater caves containing untold numbers of man?s treasures.  You, sir, and the false identity I established as your pilot, are about to become another chapter in the unsolved mystery."   I cannot help but laugh ridiculously as I parachute from the plane to the water below.  Two weeks later, when I return to class after our spring break, I learn of the tragic disappearance of our sainted, beloved teacher.   Too bad.  So sad.   Kinda far fetched since I cannot even fly a paper airplane well, but the idea is poetry.  Poetry if I can assume that the mystery of the Bermuda Triangle is truly underwater caverns. So it won't work, but...  The doctors approach me as the sole capable donor of rare blood that Dr. A. desperately needs for a transfusion.  "Eric, class ended about five minutes ago, you may leave.  I would have thought you much more anxious to depart yet you are still here scribbling in your journal," Dr. A. states as he prepares to turn off the classroom lights.  I gather my books and hang back as he makes his way out of the building.  Perhaps some strong words on neutral territory will satisfy my thirst for confrontation.  I wait for Dr. A. to leave the building and start to exit through the same doors a few strides behind him.  I stop, somewhat stunned, and watch the man remove his shoes and socks and place them in his attaché.  Dr. A. completes his change of uniform by rolling up his pant legs and making a mockery of himself in the puddles the rain has formed while we were in class. A smile creeps to my face and the desire to bludgeon the man with his required reading is overcome by an impulse to set a course to my own car by way of all the largest puddles.